I wandered along the sun one afternoon
with quiet clouds, with unsung days of June.
A tall tree clasped in sunlight came into sight
Leaves shimmered as the wind whirled in delight.
I looked at the yellow chimes swinging on the tree
singing the song of love ruffled by the soft breeze.
if that was all my eyes could see
if that was all my ears could listen
if that was the only beauty painted.
I then laid my eyes on the broken chimes on the ground
that rested silently, unnoticed, singing the unheard sound.
The beauty was neither in the wholeness nor in unbroken
it was in the existence, in crinkles of all that had fallen.
(I have been slightly busy with work, despite of that I actually did wander, and I hope I could capture the essence fairly.)